by Ledger,John
“In a swamp?” One of the groupie/make-up artists/eye candy/stripper for hire women piped up, wrinkling her nose. She was an archetypal blonde with breasts that were probably far bigger than her IQ in Brooke’s learned opinion; probably somebody brought along to look good on camera and keep her dialogue to a minimum of zero. “Swamps aren’t sexy.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, babe,” Nash grinned. “Swamps are sexy, and trust me, you’ll think so too when you check out how awesome this is going to look.”
“I thought you were aiming for creepy, scary, make you piss your pants frightening?” After biting her tongue for long enough, Brooke finally wasn’t able to keep from letting that riposte slip out. After several years of being a devoted Drownatic, obsessing with their music, desperately hoping that one day she’d be one of those lucky competition winners, it had taken only a couple of hours at best in their presence to see what they were really about. Their self-professed horror love was a sham, a marketing ploy and a way to get the women to drop their thongs as quick as possible. There might be a thread or two of authenticity to the whole thing, but Brooke felt her eyes were wide open right now.
Before Nash had an opportunity to address Brooke, others were voicing opinions, concerns and creating another hubbub of noise that rippled in waves around the boat. Loudmouth Samuel found a way to take the floor once more, his strident tones rolling above anybody else’s.
“For crying out loud, any of you pussies getting skittish thinking this shit is real, come on, get a clue,” Samuel said. “Do you seriously think these guys are gonna take us somewhere dangerous? Come on. It’s entertainment, this is a competition we won; it’s all about having a good time. Yeah, it’s meant to be scary ‘cause that’s what Drowning in Gore are all about, right? So, let’s all loosen up, get some drinks under our belts, get some clothes off even and party down! Am I right? Besides, the old guy is a fucking hype man, a damn ring-in. Here he is telling all about this Marshy Menace creature and yet he’s sitting right there about to go into the swamp too. You really reckon if he believed a word of that happy horseshit, we’d be able to see him for dust?”
“Naw, see that’s where I gotta correct ya, big guy,” Benchley’s grating voice issued and Brooke saw that the old guy had made his way back down, moving almost noiselessly between the rows of seats. “Ain’t takin’ my ass in that hellborne swamp, nossiree. Furthest I’m going into those godforsaken death waters is just in the mouth of it. Got my own boat moored in there just a-waiting for me to get my ass in it and push off back the other direction. My job here is done. Let y’all know what confounded lunacy y’all are lettin’ yourselves in for. For the record, I did try n’ tell these rockers that it’s a signed death certificate for the lot of y’all, but shit, money talks. Now, if y’all excuse me, this is my stop comin’ up right smartly. Mister Boat Operator, if ya please, roll in the mouth up there and my craft should be on the left under an overhang of trees.”
As Samuel was set back on his ass by Benchley’s remarks, more vocal ruckus broke out. Letting most of it wash over her, Brooke stared ahead as the craft sliced through the water. Those ominous trees were right in front of them, everywhere, and she realised that nobody was yanking anybody’s crank, at least about the venturing into the swamps. That was exactly where the boat was going, and soon enough, they’d entered that swamp mouth Benchley mentioned.
Great towering trees, some tall and straight, and others gnarled, twisted, hunched over entities, both marched along the water’s sides as well as extending up from it. Around the mouth, there was moderate space between them, but it wasn’t long before that vegetation thickened to the point where it was impossible to see anything through it. Broken branches and fallen rotting logs drifted in the sluggish water, and a scummy residue floated atop much of it. Almost instantaneous with entering the place, a dank unpleasant odour made itself present, rising up from those stagnant waters and emanating from either side.
The larger trees were spreading giant branches so far across the water it was as if they were attempting to reach and grasp their brothers on the opposing side. They created a canopy of sorts, shrouding the place in even more darkness than out in the open waters. There were lights on the airboat, but they didn’t penetrate into the dark to as great an extent as Brooke-and probably quite a few of the others-would have liked. Their spears of illumination through the dark engendered almost as much unease as utter darkness might have done, for as the boat moved they spotlighted sections of water, or tree trunks or indeterminable material in both the woods bordering the swamp as well as the water itself, playing tricks on the eyes and instilling apprehension in minds.
Aside from the infernal noise of the propeller and the engine, both of which were making Brooke feel nervous enough, and chatter from the passengers which abruptly dropped down to hushed murmurings, it was eerily quiet in here. Too quiet. So quiet that it was…frightening.
Brooke would have laughed at the ridiculous assessment from Nash that swamps were sexy, if she hadn’t been feeling so on edge. Fuck this. This was just about the last place on earth she wanted to be, under any circumstances.
“Hey, what gives?” Old Benchley was up alongside the airboat operator now, leaning over his shoulder, peering into the gloom. The lights weren’t able to flare the place up like a mass of floodlights, but they should have been able to display where an obviously moored boat should be. “Where in tarnation is my boat? Hey, hey you, Ash…”
“Nash.”
“That’s what I said. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but ain’t this right where I left my boat?”
“Yeah,” Nash shrugged. “As far as I recall, right there.”
“D’you see a goddamn boat there now? Ain’t no boat, is there?”
“Maybe it came loose. You might not have had it secured. Can’t have gone far, it’s not like these waters are a raging river. Running slower than a wet week in here.”
“Do I look like a goddamned novice to you? Do I look like the kinda rank amateur idiot who wouldn’ta secured my shit proper-like?”
Benchley dug in his pocket and pulled a flashlight out, switching it on so a new beam of light pierced into the swamp.
“Where is it? Where is it? Sweet fucking crap, we’re getting’ too deep in the swamp here!”
“Good one, old-timer!” Samuel slapped his thigh, chortling. “Keep at it, maybe you’ll sell us on the idea yet.”
Samuel could string coherent sentences together and keep up his running commentary, but Brooke guessed he was just slightly too inebriated to pick up the genuine alarm in Benchley’s voice, the fear in his expression. Brooke hadn’t missed it. She hadn’t indulged in a single drink yet and all her senses were on high alert. The timbre of Benchley’s normally gruff voice shot up in pitch and it made her very nervous. If he was just playing a role as tasked to him by the band to put a more unnerving spin on the tale, he was a damn accomplished actor.
Ignoring Samuel, Benchley continued to probe in the gloom of the marsh with his flashlight, the beam jerking from tree to tree, skittering across the water in a bid to pick out any slow drifting craft. There was nothing methodical about it; Benchley’s growing panic made his actions rushed.
“Hey, who knows?” Samuel continued. “Maybe old Marshmallow Monster is gonna get you first hey, Gramps?”
Again Benchley chose not to respond, but he visibly stiffened and the fear Brooke could see on his visage didn’t evaporate at all. He was definitely very scared of something and that fear was contagious, at least to people like Brooke, who weren’t either too intoxicated to care, or too caught up in the whole horror aspects being built up to perfection.
“Uhh…I got a question,” Gus, the portly guy decked out in full Drowning in Gore clothing spoke up. “Can we…can we film bits and pieces on our camera phones? You know, of the recording and videos and such? Is that allowed?”
“Yeah, no sweat, buddy,” Flood answered that one, still kicking back in his seat smoking, nonchal
ant and carefree, seemingly unfazed by Benchley’s panicked attitude. “However, if you text anybody-that goes for all of you-and reveal our secret location to a soul, your time here is done. Anything filmed with you in it, won’t make the cut, all participation in any activities will be rendered null and void. You feel me?”
“Gotcha. No probs. Don’t worry ‘bout that. Got nobody to text anyways. I just wanna get some mad footage. This is gonna be sweet!” Gus was rapt.
As Benchley’s alarm grew, his behaviour spreading discord among other passengers, the craft continued moving deeper into the swamp. It wasn’t gunning along like a speedboat to begin with and now it slowed to a literal crawl as eyes searched for any sign of the absent boat in the murky waters. Brooke could no longer see any sign of open water back behind them. They were swallowed up in this dark, dank, ominous place, surrounded by walls of misshapen trees and assailed by the pervading, unpleasant odour.
Brooke debated just how quickly she would get punted from this now less than appealing adventure if she elected to dig out her phone. She wasn’t so naïve to think they’d turn the boat around though. Not at this stage. They were in here now, anybody who fucked up would be dealt with accordingly afterwards.
The airboat abruptly jolted to a stop with a thump loud enough to be heard over the noise of the propeller. Even at the minimal speed it was progressing, the sudden halt jarred most people forward, even spilling some from their seats. More crashing sounds emanated from the rear of the craft, and inexplicably, the engine died completely, then the propeller.
“What the hell?” Samuel bellowed. “Where’d you get your boat license? Cornflakes box? Hit a log, you fucking three toed tree sloth?”
Confusion and bewilderment reigned supreme as the boat operators claims refuting he’d hit any log were drowned out. Donita, one of those who’d slid from her seat and ended up on the boat floor, stayed sitting there, looking dazed. Samuel and Lonny were up at the front of the boat in a rush, jostling Benchley as they tried to get a visual on what obstruction brought the craft to a standstill.
“Wasn’t a log,” Operator persisted. “There wasn’t anything there. The way was clear right through. Hasn’t been any logs down here for a while.”
“Then what the fuck was it?”
“I don’t know! Not a log, there wasn’t anything!”
“What are you waiting for? Get out there and find out what it was!”
“I’m paid to drive the boat. That’s it.”
“Maybe there was something under the boat, in this murky swamp water.” Somebody else hazarded. “Got tangled up in the engine?”
“There’s gonna be somthin’ in the damn water all right, but ain’t gonna be no shit gettin’ stuck in the engine,” Benchley barked, and Brooke heard the ragged edge of fear in his voice. “See that big damn cage at the back? That’s where the engine, propeller, all that shit is. Ain’t nuthin’ on the bottom of an airboat. This sumbitch could drive around in a bathtub if it was big enough, ain’t need much water. So, ain’t nuthin’ caught in the engine ‘less it’s been jammed in there on purpose!”
“By what?”
“Ain’t need to tell ya what. Ain’t what anyhows. It’s who!”
“That’s enough, Benchley,” Crypt said. “Just sit down and relax. We’ll get this fixed up, then we’ll get to the swamphouse, everything will be sweet. Probably catch up to your boat on the way. Lodge, Reef, get up here.”
Two enormous men comprised of slabs of muscle upon muscle, clad in black clothing, stood up from seats near the craft’s rear and obliged, dutifully making their way towards the front. Brooke noticed the pair earlier and already pegged them as minders or security personnel for the band, so unlike some of the other passengers included on the trip, she hadn’t found their presence unusual or unnecessary.
“Boys, get out there and find what the problem is,” Crypt ordered the two walking bulks of muscle.
“In the swamp?” Lodge asked, blinking; an incredulous expression replacing the bored one he’d formerly been wearing. “You serious?”
“About as serious as your next pay cheque will be non-existent if you don’t.”
“Jesus Christ! How deep is this water?” Reef looked at Benchley for the answer to that.
“Varies. Some parts can get pretty deep, like big trenches in the bottom and what not, but most of it, ain’t so deep at all. Don’t need ta be deep for Malice to move around in it.”
“Screw your Malice!” Penelope shrilled. “There’s no Malice, it’s a stupid story! This is stupid!”
“Just get a move on. Big guys like you it isn’t…” Crypt’s address to the minders was cut short as something smashed into the side of the boat, tipping the whole craft upwards on a forty five degree angle. Most of those who were standing weren’t standing for long. They toppled sideways, sliding down the deck. A couple of more fortunate ones managed to get tangled up in the legs of sitting souls or thump against the seats, while Benchley grabbed onto the tilted up side with grim determination. Not everyone was that lucky.
As involuntary screams and shouts of alarm resounded, so too did a series of big splashes as several luckless standing passengers, over on that side nearest to the muddy banks, were flung overboard.
Brooke spilled out of her seat and crashed against Donita and Tsunami, accidentally grabbing a handful of the bassist’s long black locks at she did. He didn’t pay much mind to it, more concerned with finding something to anchor himself, though the boat didn’t stay tilted. After a few terrifying seconds which felt like eternities, it dropped its flat bottom back into the swamp water, rocking as it did.
Left floundering in the sludgy morass of the waters were both minders, as well as Samuel, Nash, Blonde Bigtits and another of the groupie squad. They all surfaced in varying degrees of shock, spluttering and gasping, arms flailing. Samuel looked stunned, as if the impromptu rendezvous with the swampy murk had smacked him sober, while the minders were both letting a creative stream of cursing fly.
Barely realising she had her hand gripping tightly to one of Tsunami’s, Brooke watched as Blonde Bigtits quickly exited the water, scrambling not towards the boat, but stumbling and hauling herself up on the muddy slope of the bank. She flopped down among the overgrown vegetation there, and Samuel, after a moment’s indecision, decided to follow her.
Ripples spread out around those who angled back towards the boat, with Nash leading the way. Brooke wasn’t surprised to see he offered no hand of support to the other stunned woman in the water; just aimed straight for the craft to get himself back up on deck.
About three feet from where Lodge was submerged up to his chest, the quagmire erupted in a paroxysm of spiraling water and scattered vegetation. A huge misshapen mass that seemed to be a curious melange of both bristling hair and irregular scale patterns, launched out of this and long appendages stretched towards Samuel, snaring him in a ghastly grip before he reached the bank.
Fresh screams split the night and Lonny cut loose with a horrified, repetitive mantra consisting of ‘what the fuck?’ over and over again, as thick limbs shrouded in hair sprouting between horn encrusted scale plates encircled the knucklehead and vanished in the blink of an eye beneath the roiling waters.
“Help him!” Jayne, surprisingly, was the first to shriek.
“Fuck that!” Reef shouted, grabbing desperately at the boat’s side. He pulled himself up, and as Lodge did likewise in conjunction with Nash, all simultaneously, the craft tipped perilously once again, ramping up the renewed terror in the screams.
Samuel’s form partially re-emerged; his body floating on its back. Then something punched right out of his stomach in a grisly shower of fountaining blood and ruined flesh. Rear lights from the boat captured the gruesome scene in all its hideous glory and those watching the spectacle saw that it was a hand of sorts, protruding from the open ragged rend it had torn in Samuel’s abdomen. It was covered in hair and scaly plates, and was both clawed and webbed as well, and it remained alo
ft in the sky for a moment, indiscernible pieces of mangled organs and coiled intestinal loops spilling down the length of a freakish arm.
All Brooke could hear was shrill screams; she barely acknowledged that she was adding to that soundtrack of horror, gripping Tsunami’s hand so tight she must have been cracking bones.
The bestial limb disappeared, sucking back under the water, and as it went down, the mutilated corpse of Samuel bent double. His legs flipped up and his face and knees rushed together in an unexpected collision, and then his body was gone too, vanishing in the watery turmoil. All that remained was a thick spreading pool of gore and fragments of organ flesh, eddying in the ripples of water where he’d been.
“Give me a damn hand in here!” Nash yelled and through the haze of screams, Brooke noticed the screechy, high-pitched cadence of his voice. Big, badass metalhead literally pissing his pants there. That wouldn’t do his horror loving, tough guy image any favours. Good thing he’d gone ass up in the swamp because she was willing to bet his black jeans would have been soaked through either way.
Flood and Craig were there to haul him in, with Gus and Crypt finally on their feet, getting across to assist Reef. Though they had no inclination to go sliding down the deck again and end up in that deadly water, some passengers moved the boat’s opposite side to counteract the weight contributed by the three men hanging on the edge.
“How about a bit of…Jesus! Fuck!” The complaint Lodge was just about to register requiring assistance, turned into a wailing keen of agony as the water simmered ferociously around him. Hands were dragging him up over the edge, but as they let go and he dropped onto the deck, all could see that his right leg was missing from the knee down. All that was left was a gory red stump, jetting a stream of blood all over the floor.
“Oh my god!” Donita shrilled. She wasn’t the only one. Brooke had done her share of screaming too, but she was pretty certain if there was any more of it going on for much longer she’d be deafer than she would have been sticking her head right into a speaker midway through a Drowning in Gore concert. As she thought that, a sickly morbid cogitation about Samuel slapped her in the brain with an unwelcome presence. The drunken bigmouth had most definitely been Drowning in Gore, barely a minute ago and now, Lodge’s stump was shooting myriad new reserves of gore right onto the deck.